


How the Light Gets In

by peg22



Series: Domestic Disturbances [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, First Aid, Greg takes care of Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Post-The Empty Hearse, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 12:56:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2192637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peg22/pseuds/peg22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns, his reputation cleared. Why is Greg Lestrade the only one who notices that Sherlock is barely holding it together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	How the Light Gets In

_Ring the bells that still can ring_

_Forget your perfect offering_

_There is a crack, a crack in everything_

_That's how the light gets in._

_Leonard Cohen, Anthem._

 

 

Greg noticed the minute he hugged him. He was so shocked to see him, alive and well, walking toward him in the parking garage, grousing at him about the smoking, he might have squeezed the air right out his lungs but he felt Sherlock wince and he pulled back a bit.

“Okay?”

Sherlock frowned. “No permanent damage.”

“Right.” Greg stepped back and looked at him. Couldn’t believe he was looking at him. In the flesh. Not dead. He hugged him again and Sherlock turned away and lifted his shoulders against the touch.

He wanted to investigate, take off the coat, unbutton the shirt, and find out what “no permanent damage” meant to Sherlock. Instead he shared his cigarette, listened to the almost unbelievable explanation, and drove him back to Baker Street.

 

 

He noticed again the day of the press conference in front of 221B. Only Sherlock Holmes could return to London and immediately prevent Parliament and everyone in it from turning to dust. Afterwards, Greg sat in Sherlock’s chair and watched as every congratulation, every friendly back slap, sent Sherlock’s shoulders up against his ears - his eyes shuttered, his mouth tight. Greg wondered how John didn’t notice. After Mary pulled him into a tight hug, Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon against the window.

Greg walked into the kitchen and pulled out his mobile. Punched in a number and drank the rest of his champagne. Wished he knew where the whiskey bottle was.

“Gregory Lestrade, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jesus, butter does not melt in his mouth. “Mycroft I need to see you.”

“Really?”

“Keep your pants on – it’s about Sherlock.” Maybe this call wasn’t the best idea. He had what only could be called a “charged” relationship with Sherlock’s brother. In for a penny . . . “Where are you?”

“At the Diogenes. I’ll send a car.” The phone clicked to silence.

Greg scrubbed his face and opened the door under the sink. He was definitely going to need the whiskey bottle.

“It’s next to the teacups.” John walked in the kitchen. “Looks like we had the same idea.”

Greg found the bottle and two glasses and set them on the kitchen table. Saw Sherlock watching him and held up the bottle. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and walked out of view.

“The more things change . . .” he muttered and poured a splash into each glass.

“What?” John took a glass.

“Just him.” Greg nodded as Sherlock walked back into view, reassuming his position at the window, now with violin and bow in his hand. He watched as John looked at him for a long moment and then tipped his head and emptied his glass. Held it out to Greg.

“It’s like that is it?” Greg poured another two fingers into John’s glass. “Want to talk about it?”

John took another long sip. Brought the glass down and looked at Greg. “It’s just a bit . . .”

“Un-fucking-believable?” Greg drained his glass.

“At least.” John smiled. “He’s just so . . . here. All of a sudden.”

The first few notes of Sherlock’s violin floated into the kitchen and John’s face drained of colour.

Greg touched his arm. “John . . .”

John shook his head and grabbed the bottle from the table. “Jesus. Never thought I’d hear . . . see that again.”

Greg nodded. “As if he never left.”

John set the bottle on the table hard and shook his head. “Oh, he left – he bloody well left.” He closed his eyes for a moment and Greg realized why John hadn’t noticed whatever injury or illness Sherlock seemed to be hiding. He had his own pain to deal with. John was juggling grief and disbelief and relief and what the hell was he supposed to do now that Sherlock’s back and he’s got Mary . . . Greg wouldn’t wish that kind of circus on anyone.

He squeezed John’s shoulder. “At least you’ve got a lot of time now to get it all squared, right? Looks like he’s settled back in.”

John took a deep breath. “Yeah, right. Good. Yeah.” He turned and placed a hand on Greg’s arm. “You’re right. Time. Good.” He turned quickly and walked into the other room.

Greg poured a bit more whiskey into his glass, drank it quickly, and poked his head out of the kitchen. Held up his mobile. “Sorry guys, got a call. Congratulations, again. Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. See you all soon.” He turned around and left through the kitchen door. He had seen Sherlock lift the bow off the strings while he was talking, but as he headed down the stairs, the notes of some sad sonata chased him out the door.

 

*****

Greg sat in his car, looking up at the darkened windows of 221B. The visit to Mycroft had gone as expected. Mycroft was all “classified, redacted, why are you so interested, above your pay grade, classified, Sherlock is not your business,” and Greg had gotten all “bloody officious, give me clearance, sod off, read me in then, stop staring at my arse, he is my business.” Typical.

He sighed and pulled out his mobile. It was eleven o’clock. Sherlock couldn’t have gone to bed. He hardly ever slept. Which is why Greg had gotten used to calls at all hours of the night – “It was the brother – arrest the brother.” Or, “If I tell you who used the gun in Brixton, will you fire Anderson?”

It was one of the things he missed when Sherlock . . . flew away. Nights were longer, the silence stretching out until dawn, day after day. There were other things he missed, too. There had been nothing spoken between them, no sort of arrangement, or declaration, or even acknowledgement. But the nights they had tumbled into bed after a difficult case, after an unfortunate relapse, after a few too many nightmares, those nights had been seared into Greg’s mind. Images he used to torture himself over and over in the first few weeks . . . after.

He punched in the number and Sherlock picked up on the first ring.

“Eleven minutes. A record for you, I think.”

“So you’re up?”

“Come upstairs. Your brooding under my window is distracting. You still have a key.”

A statement not a question. One of the things he did not miss. Cheeky bastard. He sighed and shoved the mobile back in his pocket. No need for a goodbye. Most of the time his and Sherlock’s phone calls were a continuation of the same conversation. His chest tightened when he thought of the last two years and how he had lived with the guilt and the regret and the inescapable feeling that although he hadn’t been on that roof, he had certainly been party to the push. And now, miraculously, the conversation continued. Uninterrupted, it would seem.

 

Sherlock was at the kitchen table. He looked up as Greg entered. “You might as well finish what you started this afternoon.”

Two glasses sat by a half empty bottle of whiskey and Greg took a glass. “You joining me?” He poured two fingers.

“Working,” Sherlock said and stood up, turning toward the sink. “But feel free to pickle yourself. I won’t need you for at least four hours.”

Greg walked around the table and looked into the microscope. “Anything interesting?”

“Hardly anything you’d find interesting. But on a bacterial level – it’s fascinating.”

Greg brushed a hand along Sherlock’s shoulders, saw the flinch, and stopped behind him.

“You going to tell me what that’s about?”

Sherlock bent his head, his hands flat on the counter. “I told you – bacteria.”

Greg finished his drink and reached around Sherlock, setting the glass in the sink. Again, Sherlock moved away from the incidental touch. Greg didn’t say anything this time. He walked into the other room and sat in Sherlock’s chair.

“You’ve been to see my brother.” Sherlock sat back down at the kitchen table, readjusted the microscope.

“Yeah. Did he call you?”

Sherlock bent his head toward the microscope. “He uses a particular brand of soap . . .”

“I didn’t touch him.”

“I didn’t say you did. The scent . . . lingers.” Sherlock stood. He moved toward the doorway. “Anything interesting?”

“At your brother’s? Hardly.” Greg felt Sherlock’s eyes on him. “Business – tying up a few loose ends.”

“Right.”

Greg could tell Sherlock didn’t believe him. Hell, he didn’t believe himself.

“I hope you had biscuits – he does serve lovely biscuits.” Sherlock walked into the room and sat in John’s chair. And immediately stood up. Wincing.

For just a moment Greg wondered if he’d misjudged the whole thing. Maybe it was psychic pain he was observing. Maybe Sherlock was broken up about John and Mary . . . couldn’t bear to sit in John’s chair . . .

“I have a bit of a sore back.” Sherlock moved to the couch, perched on the edge like a schoolboy. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Try to analyse my every move. And for your information, that chair sits too low. And I can’t find the pillow. Thus the couch.”

Greg stood and walked into the kitchen. “Take your chair.”

“Oh, no I’m fine.” Sherlock settled very slowly into the couch. Smiled.

Greg poured two drinks, and carried both glasses and the bottle over to the couch. Sherlock reached up and took one from him. Greg set the bottle on the table and sat next to Sherlock, who had moved to the end of the couch, his legs crossed, sipping the whiskey.

Greg raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were working.”

“I can’t work with you rattling on.”

Greg sat back and closed his eyes for a moment. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and an occasional horn. He lifted the glass to his lips and settled back into the couch. “This is strange.”

“What?”

“This. You sitting here, having a whiskey.”

“I drink on occasion.”

Greg rolled his eyes. The man is a proper genius but sometimes . . . “You know what I mean.”

Sherlock set his glass on the table and turned to look at Greg. “You mean the fact that I am anywhere having a whiskey.”

“There we go. Knew you’d suss it out eventually.” Greg smiled and reached for Sherlock’s arm. “I keep wanting to make sure you’re real. It’s daft, I know.”

“It’s a perfectly predictable reaction to an unusual event.”

“Now you sound like your brother.”

“I am deeply wounded.” Sherlock picked up his glass. “You’re right, though.”

“Can you repeat that?”

“I said you may be right.”

“You said I _was_ right.”

Sherlock frowned. “You heard me then.”

“Course, I just wanted to hear it again. Banner day I reckon.” Greg chuckled when Sherlock looked offended. “Dear diary, today Sherlock finally admitted I was right.”

“You’re an idiot.” Sherlock grabbed the bottle and filled his glass.

Greg’s eyes widened at the amount, but held his glass out and Sherlock splashed an equal amount into it. Greg held up his glass. “To auspicious returns.”

“I doubt many people would agree.”

“Fuck people. I for one am glad you’re back.” Greg took a big swallow and almost choked.

“Shall we revisit the definition of sipping whiskey?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Greg felt the whiskey warm his chest. It _was_ strange. He heard Sherlock sigh beside him.

“It has been . . . unsettling. Back in London, back in the flat, as if the last two years . . .” Sherlock’s voice drifted off. He stared at the fireplace, lost somewhere Greg couldn’t imagine.

He put his hand on Sherlock’s knee. Hoped it wasn’t presumptuous. Didn’t really care if it was. “What the hell happened? Can you tell me any of it?”

“How much did my brother tell you?”

Greg snorted. “You know your brother – what do you think?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Why did you think he would?” He lifted his shoulder, winced. Pulled his left arm across his chest, stretching it.

“That.” Greg pointed at Sherlock’s arm with his glass. “That’s why I thought he would. What the hell did you do?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Stop it.” Greg had just enough whiskey to be brave. “It’s just me here now. You still trust me, right? That didn’t change.”

Sherlock didn’t speak for a moment. Greg thought maybe he had crossed some line. Didn’t care.

“Sherlock, you’re obviously in pain. Has someone seen you?”

Sherlock sat up straighter. “I have been seen. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Greg set his glass on the table and ran a hand through his hair. “Oh, sure. You’re right as bloody rain.”

“I am as well as to be expected.”

“Now you’re just taking the piss – no one told you that.”

Sherlock inched closer to Greg on the couch. Reached down between Greg’s legs. Greg jerked back. Sherlock leaned closer, grabbing Greg’s crotch.

Greg hissed and pushed at Sherlock’s hand. “What the fuck are you . . .Jesus.”

“Not quite.” Sherlock’s fingers kneaded and he slid off the couch, turning toward Greg. “I am hoping to distract you. Your inquiries are tedious.”

Greg pushed again at Sherlock’s hands, lifted his knee against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock stopped and he grimaced and Greg wiggled out from under him, seeking refuge on the other end of the couch.

“Not until you tell me.”

Sherlock sighed and sat on the floor, his back pressed lightly against the coffee table. “That usually works.”

“It still works. Believe me.”

“All evidence to the contrary.” Sherlock reached behind him, took Greg’s glass, and drained it. He set it back on the table and took a ridiculous amount of time getting off the floor. Greg reached down to help him, but he swatted his hand away, leaned heavily on the table, and finally, with a groan, sat on the edge of the couch.

“So if I show you some evidence of my time away, you will stop asking me all these ridiculous and redundant questions?”

“It’s called concern, Sherlock.” Greg watched as Sherlock unbuttoned his collar button, his fingers moving down his shirt. An image of ripping off every button on that shirt and pressing Sherlock to the floor flooded his brain and he forgot what else he was going to say.

When he looked up, Sherlock was slipping his shirt off his shoulders. He winced as it brushed against his back and he turned slightly, staring at Greg, his eyes bright with pain, or alcohol or desire – Greg couldn’t tell. But he couldn’t think about any of that as he took in the damage of two years written into Sherlock’s flesh.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he whispered and he lifted his hand toward Sherlock’s shoulder. The once smooth skin was now criss-crossed with scars, some deep, some new. A bandage was wound tightly around his lower chest and a line of stitches peeked out from the top of the white cloth.

Sherlock put his hands on his knees and sat very still. Greg traced a long scar from Sherlock’s right shoulder down his right arm. Sherlock shuddered against the touch and Greg lifted his hand.

“Hurt?”

“Only when I laugh.” Sherlock smiled against the pain.

Greg wanted to weep. He wanted to hit something. Kill someone. Who the hell did this to him? What the hell happened?

“I was captured twice. Once in Bolivia, for three days. Of course it took me that long to find my target. Bolivian prison records are not the most up-to-date.”

As Sherlock spoke, Greg traced each scar. Felt the heat, wished he could erase them with his touch.

“Of course Mycroft wanted to pull me out. But then we got word Moriarity had an associate who was still working from London, and I knew I had to stay.”

“An associate?” Greg moved his hand to Sherlock’s hip, wondering how far the scars continued.

“It seems that my death didn’t guarantee your safety.”

“Fucking hell.” Greg moved his hand to Sherlock’s neck, his fingers moving through his hair.

Sherlock leaned against Greg. “Less questions, remember?”

Greg sighed. “But some of this looks . . . new. Are you sure a doctor has seen this?”

“Some of this is new. Serbia. Last week. A bit of a bump.”

“A bump? I’d say you’ve got a couple of broken ribs and what looks like whip marks. Jesus.”

Sherlock slowly eased his back against Greg’s chest. Rested his head against Greg’s shoulder. “No more talking.”

Greg tried to be as soft as possible. Lifted his left arm out from under Sherlock and wrapped it around his chest. Felt Sherlock’s nipple. Sherlock hummed under his breath. Greg let his fingers trail down Sherlock’s stomach, across the bandages, to the edge of his trousers. Sherlock moved his hips and Greg slipped two fingers under his belt.

“You sure?” Greg whispered in Sherlock’s ear. Felt him shudder against him.

“Stop talking.” Sherlock’s voice was low, breathy. Greg felt his erection against his trousers. Sherlock must have noticed, too, because he pressed his ass hard against it. Greg’s head fell back against the couch. It had been a long time. And not just the two years Sherlock was gone. Since John had moved in, there had been scarce nights they found themselves alone.

He had often wanted to take John out – get him pissed – ask him if he ever . . .

“Fuck . . .” Greg hissed as Sherlock reached around and squeezed Greg’s crotch. “Hang on.”

“Stop thinking and fuck me.” Sherlock slid off Greg onto the couch, loosening his belt and unzipping his trousers. “Unless you just want to watch.”

Greg caught the slight slur in Sherlock’s voice.

“You’re drunk.” Greg couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock as he slowly slid his trousers down past his knees. He wasn’t wearing any pants and his erection stood out straight from his body.

“Fuck . . .” Greg sat up and moved between Sherlock’s legs and pulled his trousers off. Sherlock laid his head against the couch, one arm over his eyes. Greg took a moment and looked at Sherlock’s chest. More scars, more damage. He dipped his head down and swore under his breath. Put his hands on Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock’s lifted his hips, offering, begging. Greg slid his palm over the end of his cock and his fingers closed around the shaft and he slid up and down slowly. Sherlock moaned and hit the couch with his fist. Greg reached down with his other hand and fingered his balls. Sherlock hissed something Greg couldn’t understand and he lowered his head and moved his lips and tongue up and down. Sherlock grabbed his head, his fingers slipping through the short hair, moaning.

Greg sucked hard and Sherlock moved under him. Greg slipped a hand down and unzipped his trousers, reaching in and taking his cock out – relieving the pressure. As he continued his assault on Sherlock, he massaged himself, almost coming before Sherlock, who shouted and raised his hips off the couch, shoving Greg off his cock and collapsing against the cushions. Greg let out a long moan and fell against Sherlock’s chest, panting.

After a moment, Sherlock shifted under him. Greg lifted his head and saw Sherlock’s raised eyebrow.

“More questions?”

“Can’t think of a one.” Greg sighed and pushed himself off Sherlock. Tucked himself back in.

Sherlock remained splayed on the couch. Eyes closed. One hand against the bandages. Greg felt himself getting hard again. He stood and took a deep breath.

“Everything good?”

Sherlock cracked open an eye. Looked at Greg.

Greg felt like an ass. Did he just ask Sherlock if it had been good? “I mean . . . did it hurt . . . I mean . . . uh . . . oh sod it.” He leaned back down and kissed Sherlock hard on the lips.

Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down. Greg braced his arms on the back of the couch on either side of Sherlock’s head and slipped his tongue into his mouth. Tasted whiskey. Felt Sherlock move under him and lifted his head.

“Bedroom.”

Greg frowned. “Bedroom?” They had never . . . not in the bedroom. The bedroom was . . . Sherlock’s. Intimate. The bedroom made it real.

Sherlock sighed. “I _am_ injured.”

“Oh, _now_ you’re injured. I see.” Greg stood and held out a hand and pulled Sherlock off the couch. Sherlock kicked his trousers off his ankle and walked toward the kitchen.

Greg chuckled at the sight – Sherlock practically naked, his shirt hanging off his elbows, his hair sticking out from his head at all the wrong angles. Sherlock turned to look at him and he stopped laughing.

“You’re bleeding.” Greg walked over and touched Sherlock’s skin just above the bandages. “I think you pulled a stitch.”

Sherlock twisted around, which disturbed his ribs and he grimaced. “I can’t see.”

“Stand still,” Greg commanded and dropped to a knee to get a look at Sherlock’s side.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, Sherlock. You’ve popped two stitches. I can’t see past the bandage – can we get it off a bit?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Kit’s in the bathroom, Mother.”

Greg looked up. “Mother, really?”

“Yes, Mother. This is tedious.”

“This could get infected. I’ll be right back.” Greg stood and walked into the bathroom.

Sherlock followed behind, pulling his shirt back over his shoulders. Greg grabbed the kit – John’s contribution to keeping Sherlock alive. He opened it to find it fully stocked – bandages, tape, antiseptic, sutures, needles, tweezers, antiseptic, antifungal . . . he held up the small tube and Sherlock shrugged.

“He liked to be prepared.”

“This is anti-venom. Run across a lot of snakes do you?”

“London is filled with venomous creatures.” Sherlock closed the toilet lid and sat down.

Greg shook his head, put the anti-venom back and picked up the scissors. “Take off your shirt.”

Sherlock did as he was told and Greg cut through the layer of bandage and carefully pulled a bit back near the stitches. He was surprised to see the line went all the way down his side.

“Jesus . . . they practically gutted you.”

Sherlock winced as Greg pulled the bandages away from his skin. “I may have said something he didn’t appreciate.”

“I’d give that better than even odds – stay still.” Greg rested his hand on Sherlock’s hip. “We should clean this up a bit.”

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. Greg kneeled on one knee, clipped off a bit of hanging stitch, swabbed the skin with antiseptic and closed the gash with two butterfly bandages. Sherlock let out a breath and Greg stopped.

“It’s fine.” Sherlock put his hands on his knees, sat up straighter.

Greg continued, smoothing salve over the most irritated wounds. At one point Sherlock dug his fingers into Greg’s arm as he worked off the rest of the bandage around his chest.

“S’okay, almost done.”

Sherlock nodded and rested his head on Greg’s shoulder. Greg couldn’t see the rest of his back, but could tell the way Sherlock was breathing that it was enough. He laid a hand on Sherlock’s thigh.

“God love ya, but you’re a mess.”

“Cheers,” Sherlock said into Greg’s shoulder.

Greg leaned in and Sherlock rested his chest against him. The hard floor was doing a fine bit of damage to his knee, but he ignored it. It wasn’t very often Sherlock needed something . . . someone, and he was not going to deny him a bit of comfort. _Yes, definitely Mother._

‘Thinking again.” Sherlock sighed and pushed himself up.

Greg helped him and turned to clean up the bandages. He felt Sherlock lean against his back. Wrap his arms around Greg’s chest. Sherlock let out a deep breath. Greg didn’t move. He felt Sherlock press against his ass, almost hard.

“I just put you back together. How bout we give it a rest?” Greg looked at Sherlock through the mirror.

Sherlock lifted his head. “You can put me back together again.” He raised an eyebrow as he caught the outline of the growing bulge in Greg’s trousers. “Twice in an hour? You did miss me.”

“It’s been a while, okay?” Greg let the bandages fall into the sink. He felt Sherlock hands move down his chest.

“Okay.” Sherlock’s voice was low and breathy in his ear and his hands moved down to Greg’s waistband.

“Fuck all.” Greg turned around and wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s head and kissed him. Slow. Sherlock pulled Greg’s ass toward him and slipped his tongue in his mouth. Greg got lost in the sensation and the heat and he pushed against Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock moaned and Greg wondered if he could come with just Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth and Sherlock reached down and massaged his cock through the material of his trousers and Greg grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and hung on as Sherlock fingered the zipper, undid the button and cold air hit his thighs as his trousers tumbled to the floor.

Sherlock pulled away from Greg’s mouth and slowly lowered himself to a knee. Greg kept his hands on Sherlock’s shoulder and he threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair when Sherlock took him in his mouth. Sherlock’s tongue was hot and wet and he didn’t think he could take it much longer and Sherlock sucked harder and faster and Greg’s head fell forward and he tried to breathe as the waves overtook him and his body convulsed and his legs gave out and he fell against Sherlock’s chest, breathing hard.

Sherlock pushed him and Greg moved onto the cold floor, his ankles still trapped in his trousers. Sherlock grimaced and using the sink, stood. Looked down at Greg. Smirked.

“You’ll have to untangle all that yourself.” Sherlock opened the medicine cabinet and took out a bottle. “That was painful.”

Greg realized he had fallen onto Sherlock – held together with twine and butterflies. “Fuck, sorry. Did I hurt you?”

Sherlock shook out four paracetamol. “I was hurt before you arrived.”

“You think you should take those?” Greg sat up, tugged his trousers up over his knees and stood. “You drank a lot of whiskey.”

“Which has worn off.”

Greg stood, pulling his trousers back on. “Well give me one, then.” Greg held out his hand and Sherlock shook out two tablets into his hand. He popped them in his mouth and reached around Sherlock and turned on the water. Leaned down and sucked in the water straight from the tap. Saw that Sherlock was looking at him. “What?”

“I do have glasses.”

“Quicker.” Greg wiped his mouth and glanced at himself in the mirror. Saw Sherlock still staring at him. “What now?”

Sherlock looked away. Grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around his waist. “I think I should sit down.”

Greg touched his shoulder. “Sherlock, what is it?”

“It’s just that . . . it’s nothing.” Sherlock turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Greg frowned. This evening so far had been . . . interesting. Weird. He followed Sherlock into the kitchen, where he was filling a glass with water. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock took the pills with a long drink of water, set the glass down, and turned to look at Greg. “How does anyone answer that?”

“Usually with ‘yes, I’m fine, or no, there is something wrong . . .’”

“Do you ever believe them?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the question itself is just a social construct – you ask it to be polite, but you don’t really want, or expect an answer. A truthful answer. Because for a human being to actually answer that question would take far longer than the poser of the question wants to listen. It’s just “are you okay,” and one is supposed to say, “Yes, I’m fine,” and the poser is satisfied that not only have they shown the proper concern, but also that they have shifted the responsibility of the truth back to the person who incorrectly said that yes, they were ok.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sherlock walked into the bedroom.

Greg stood in the kitchen, confused. Was that an answer? Did Sherlock just tell him to fuck off in a thousand words? Was he supposed to leave now? He knew how it usually went – how it used to be – two bloody years ago. They would shag on the couch, or on the chair, or on the kitchen table, (or that one time on the stairs – about broke his back, tore his trousers on a nail) and afterwards Sherlock would play the violin or bang away at his laptop, and Greg would take a shower, or have a whiskey, or get a call, and he’d leave. And that would be it. It was the most ridiculous, fucked up, hottest relationship he’d ever had.

But that was two years ago. And now Sherlock was home, battered and broken. And John was somewhere else – in all ways. And Sherlock was . . .

He heard a crash in the bedroom and a string of words he could only imagine were curses in some language he didn’t know. He moved quickly into the bedroom and saw Sherlock sitting on the floor, his back against the bed.

“What the hell?”

Sherlock looked up, pain and anger in his eyes. “These fucking sheets.”

Greg helped him off the floor. “Colour not match your eyes?”

“Funny.” Sherlock wrapped his robe tightly around him. “They’re silk.”

Greg looked at the sheets. “Okay, take your word for it.”

“They’re slippy.”

Greg laughed. “Slippy?”

“My robe is also silk.”

“Well, aren’t you fancy?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I am surrounded by imbeciles.”

Greg looked around the room. “One imbecile. Who just helped your arse off the floor.”

Sherlock backed up and sat on the edge of the bed. Slid off toward the floor again.

“What the hell?” Greg lurched forward and got to him just in time. Grabbed him under his shoulders, Sherlock cursing as Greg pulled against his bandages.

“See?” Sherlock pointed at the bed. “They’re trying to kill me.”

“With silk sheets?” Greg sat on the bed. “See, not so dangerous.”

Sherlock undid his robe, let it fall to the floor. Reached around the back of the door and took another robe off the hook. Slipped into it and cinched the tie.

It finally dawned on Greg what the problem was. “Oh. Silk on silk. Slippy.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. “I am in hell.”

Greg patted the bed beside him. “Try it now – what is that, wool?”

Sherlock ignored him and sat down on the end of the bed. “Wool? How do you survive in the world? It’s cotton blend.”

“Of course. Better?”

Sherlock leaned back on the bed. “Better.” He sighed. “The pills are not working.”

“Give it time. And stop falling on the floor. You need to rest. Come here.”

Greg stood and pulled back the sheet. Sherlock stared at him a moment and rolled off the bed, came around it. Greg flapped the sheet at him and Sherlock rolled his eyes and climbed into bed. Punched the pillow. Folded his hands on his chest.

Greg looked down at him. Definitely the most fucked up relationship. He smiled.

“What?” Sherlock looked up at him, frowning.

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Here in bed. All pouty and a pain in my arse. But alive. No doubt about it.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Tedious.”

“Yes, I know – you’ve known you were alive the whole time. Give us a chance to catch up, will ya?” Greg sat on the edge of the bed. “And give yourself a break.”

“I don’t need a break.”

“Everyone needs a break Sherlock. And from what I can see, you’re overdue.”

“Your concern is noted.”

Greg had an urge to wrap his hands around Sherlock’s neck. And not in a good way. “Well, I’m done. You want to act like all this has been a walk in the park – go ahead.” He stood and turned back to the bed. “But don’t for a minute think that you’re actually fooling anybody.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then surprisingly, closed it. Stared at Greg. Took a breath. Greg wondered if the line was now so smudged, neither one of them knew when they crossed it.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes were closed and his breathing slowed. Greg whispered, “Sherlock?” and when Sherlock didn’t stir, he shook his head. Just like the man to fall asleep in the middle of a serious conversation.

Greg sighed and looked at his watch. He was never going to get any sleep tonight. He just hoped no one got robbed or murdered tomorrow. He could use a day off. He looked down at Sherlock again. Turned toward the door. Wondered how he got back here again. Couldn’t decide if it was bad luck or good fortune. A little of both, he figured.

“Stay.”

It was so soft, he wasn’t sure if he heard it. He turned back to the bed. Sherlock was still, his eyes closed.

“Stay.” Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at Greg. “Please.”

Greg turned and walked to the door. Closed it softly. Turned back to the bed and looked down at Sherlock.

“You sure?” This was . . . new. This was confusing. This was . . .

“Stop thinking.” Sherlock pulled the sheet back. “I said please.”

Greg pushed it all out of his mind, slipped out of his clothes, and slid into bed.

“Mrs. Hudson brings tea at nine. You can use my robe.” Sherlock turned a bit and flung his arm across Greg’s chest. “And if you snore, you’re on the couch.”

Greg trailed his fingers along Sherlock’s arm. “And if you snore?”

“I never snore.” Sherlock sighed and burrowed his head into Greg’s shoulder.

Greg lay awake for a long time, watched the shadows turn to dawn. Listened to Sherlock’s breathing, steady and strong. Felt his heartbeat against his side. Finally drifted off to sleep, a smile on his face as he thought of Mrs. Hudson’s face when she saw him in the morning, sitting in the chair in Sherlock’s silk robe.

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to lyricalsoul, whose wisdom about motivation, character and sex made this story better. 
> 
> And always to Susan - who keeps me right.
> 
> this is the beginning of a series of stories with these two. They are just too fun to write.


End file.
